Natural Disasters
by Lys ap Adin
Summary: There's something strange in Yamamoto's behavior and Hibari isn't certain he approves. Hibari x Yamamoto; smut and violence.
1. Conflagration

**Title:** Conflagration**  
>Pairings:<strong> Hibari/Yamamoto**  
>Summary:<strong> There is something strange going on with Yamamoto.**  
>Notes:<strong> Adult for smut; violence as foreplay; this is basically a love-letter to the essential hotness of Yamamoto. 4309 words.

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><p><strong>Conflagration<strong>

Namimori is Kyouya's territory and it is only natural that he patrol it, roaming its streets in the patterns that make sense to him (and perhaps only him) to assure himself that all is as it should be. It soothes something in Kyouya to do this, to pace along a street and see it tidy and clean and the people on it going about their business in a seemly fashion. (He does not understand people; he might even admit this to himself, in certain moods. He doesn't understand them, but he knows how they ought to behave, and because of his firmly held convictions on this score, so does a fairly high percentage of the population of Namimori.)

If Namimori is his territory, then the schools are his domain and the students his subjects. He rules them with two tonfa and a stubborn refusal to accept anything but instant obedience. (He tries, anyway, though Sawada and his little pack have made that increasingly difficult since Kyouya first took notice of him in junior high. Kyouya justifies this exception to himself because Sawada is developing into something with halfway credible fangs, and he will be more interesting to fight and put in his proper place if Kyouya permits him to continue developing.)

(He strictly refuses to think about the possibility that it is he who has become a part of Sawada's pack, because such a thing would not be seemly.)

Namimori is Kyouya's. He knows it intimately, and knows when something is out of place, knows it in his bones and blood and breath before he knows it consciously—(is aware, in fact, that Sawada's dog Gokudera monitors him because of that, like some sort of human barometer)—

And so he knows there is something amiss with Yamamoto Takeshi.

It is a Sunday and heat lies on Namimori as heavy as a hand. Most people are doing as is only appropriate: sitting on shady verandas, fanning themselves, and sipping cool drinks. It is the season for cotton yukata and zarusoba and moving slowly, but Yamamoto is ignoring all that. It is Sunday and Yamamoto should not be anywhere but at home with his father or somewhere in Sawada's orbit, but instead he is on school grounds instead and he is alone again.

It is the _again_ that Kyouya does not understand in this aberrant behavior of Yamamoto's. Will he, nil he, Kyouya knows the patterns of Sawada's people. Yamamoto is not a solitary creature—he is a pack animal. It is his natural state to be with others—usually Sawada and Gokudera, or in his father's sphere, or (less often, these days) the baseball team. For Yamamoto to seek solitude—for him to have sought it as often as he has done lately—is not what is appropriate for Yamamoto. (It is something Kyouya has struggled with, this thought that there might be multiple ways for people to do what is appropriate, all contingent on things beyond his personal control or comprehension.)

Nevertheless, here Yamamoto is again: he is on the sports field and has a bucket full of baseballs that he is methodically throwing at a target. The bucket sits on the ground at his feet; Yamamoto reaches into it, retrieves a ball, draws his arm back as he pivots on one foot and curls around the ball before he lets it fly. The entire motion is smooth, seamless—stoop, wind-up, release, follow-through, like this is some strange sports kata. It doesn't have anything to do with the baseball team, as far as Kyouya can determine such things—Yamamoto and he are the only ones on school grounds, and besides, there is a uniform that Yamamoto wears for team things.

He is not wearing a uniform now.

Instead he wears a pair of jeans, old ones that are worn down to threads in places and that fit snugly across his thighs and seat and sit low on his hips. He started off with a t-shirt as well, but stripped that off in face of the heat.

Something about that bothers Kyouya, though he doesn't know why. He watches Yamamoto lean over to pull another ball from the bucket—the level is dropping and Yamamoto has to lean farther down each time. The jeans he wears are disreputable, worn to threads in places, more so than Kyouya thinks he can countenance. They pull tight across Yamamoto's ass and thighs, straining indecently as he draws his knee up, the worn places always just on the verge of giving way. The muscles move and flex across Yamamoto's back, the action of them plan to see under Yamamoto's skin, which is tanned brown and shines with sweat in the sunlight. He curls around the ball and lets it fly, the line of his body moving precisely and fluidly. The ball thumps against the target and Yamamoto stoops for the next one. When he leans down, the ring that dangles from the chain around his neck swings free, glittering in the sun.

There is something about Yamamoto's behavior that disquiets Kyouya, though he is not certain what that is (which is, in itself, disquieting, and he does not take such things kindly). It makes no sense for Yamamoto to come to this place, to invade the silence and solitude of the school campus on a Sunday when, by rights, it should be Kyouya's alone. It makes still less sense that he should do so three Sundays running, all without fanfare, when his proper place is elsewhere.

The bucket is nearly empty when Kyouya steps away from the shade of the equipment shed from which he has been observing Yamamoto. When he does, the sunlight closes on him like a fist. It has been too long since it last rained; the heat has baked the ground dry and each step Kyouya takes stirs up dust that eddies and swirls around his feet, drifting across the tops of his shoes and dulling their polish.

Yamamoto takes no notice of him, throwing another ball as Kyouya approaches him, and another. He stoops to retrieve another ball, the last in the bucket, and lets it fly. Kyouya is close enough now that he hears the little grunt of exertion that escapes Yamamoto's throat as the ball leaves his fingers. He follows through and then draws himself straight again, no sign of the usual sloppy slouch that rounds his shoulders and curves his spine apparent now. (Kyouya dislikes that slouch; it is careless and unbefitting a Namimori student, who should carry himself with some measure of dignity.) Then he turns and looks at Kyouya as though he's known that Kyouya has been present all along and is only now choosing to acknowledge him. He doesn't say anything; Kyouya spends a split second disconcerted and not sure why.

Then he sees.

It's that Yamamoto isn't smiling. He gazes at Kyouya, the sunlight lying across his shoulders, a light, watchful expression in his eyes, and there is no trace of the smile he customarily wears. (Kyouya has puzzled over that smile, which rarely leaves Yamamoto, as though he is constantly amused by the world around him.) In its absence, Yamamoto looks different, more like the person Kyouya has glimpsed from time to time in fights, the one who wields his blades like the fangs they are.

Irritation curls through Kyouya in response, though he doesn't quite know its source. However, this is _his_ territory and domain and he doesn't need to have a reason to be displeased. Besides, Yamamoto has provided any number of excuses by his presence here this afternoon.

Kyouya stares at him a moment longer and says, enunciating each syllable precisely, "Students must wear their uniforms on school grounds."

Yamamoto blinks once and cocks his head. His hair stands up in damp spikes over the quirk of his eyebrows and the ring that rests just below the hollow of his throat catches the light when he shrugs. "School isn't in session."

Kyouya's fingers itch for the grips of his tonfa. "Those are the rules." It is an instinctive response to the sense of _challenge_ in the way Yamamoto meets his eyes, giving no indication that he cares to back down. "Students must respect the school's rules."

One of the corners of Yamamoto's mouth turns up, but it's not a smile, or not one of the smiles that normally make their home on his face. "It's too hot for that," he says, his eyes moving like he's taking in the white shirt, wilted and limp from the heat, and black slacks, their creases much less crisp than they were this morning, that Kyouya wears. It's a dismissive glance, suggestive—it makes Kyouya feel as though he's been found wanting.

Kyouya lunges for Yamamoto, through with talking. Better to curl his fingers around the grips of his tonfa and administer justice to Yamamoto for being where he has not been invited and is not wanted. Yamamoto steps back quickly when Kyouya spins the tonfa in his hands and slashes it through the thick summer air. The blow misses its intended target and Yamamoto narrows his eyes.

He does not go for a weapon of his own, not for the sword resting on the grass a meter away, next to the crumpled heap of an abandoned t-shirt, or for the ring hanging at his throat and the box that must be tucked in his pocket, but that only annoys Kyouya further. If Yamamoto thinks that Kyouya won't bite him when he isn't armed, then Yamamoto surely is as stupid as Gokudera so often proclaims. He growls and reverses the direction of his swing, fully intending to slam his tonfa into Yamamoto's stomach, where it will drive the breath out of him.

Yamamoto hums something between his teeth and takes another step out of the way of the blow. "This doesn't seem fair," he notes as he ducks beneath the other, the one that should have cracked against his jaw and loosened a few of his teeth. Kyouya growls again in automatic disdain ("fair" is a concept for sheep) and lashes out for him again. It has been a hot week, too hot for Namimori's inhabitants to stir much beyond what is necessary, and Kyouya has had little cause to exercise himself. This is the first prospect of a decent fight he has had in days and he seizes on it, even as Yamamoto evades yet another blow, turning aside from the attack and stepping inside Kyouya's reach.

When he closes his fingers on Kyouya's wrist, the shock of it is so great that Kyouya doesn't quite know what to make of it. No one touches him, it is unthinkable, and yet Yamamoto does it, folding the long fingers of his hand around Kyouya's wrist and gripping it firmly enough that Kyouya knows that he will have some trouble breaking his hold.

"This would be more fair." Yamamoto's tone is light, almost conversational, though there is still no trace of a smile on his lips and his eyes are sharp, calculating. He twists the tonfa out of Kyouya's fingers and sends it bouncing across the turf to land several meters away, even as Kyouya, outraged, drives the butt end of its mate into his stomach.

Yamamoto grunts and releases him, staggering back as Kyouya hisses his anger. The taste of rage is sharp on his tongue, rage that Yamamoto would _dare_, and he is still armed, which gives the lie to Yamamoto's claim of fairness.

He follows Yamamoto, spinning the tonfa that remains to him and slamming it against Yamamoto's side. The sound Yamamoto makes barely counts as such—Kyouya has already knocked most of the breath out of him—and Kyouya sees the fierce brightness in Yamamoto's eyes just before Yamamoto's fist connects with his jaw. Pain blossoms there; the blow is solid, unexpectedly so when Yamamoto isn't the member of Sawada's pack who fights with his hands. It's a blow that means business; whatever it is that Yamamoto thinks he's doing, he's not attempting to be conciliatory or to escape being bitten.

Kyouya bares his teeth at Yamamoto and ducks aside from the next punch, the one that comes up from inside his guard and is meant for his midriff, and slashes at Yamamoto's jaw instead. He catches a glimpse of Yamamoto's teeth in return, the sort of smile that Yamamoto only wears when he's fighting, before Yamamoto spins aside from Kyouya's tonfa, letting it glance off his shoulder and using the motion to conceal the fist that rattles across Kyouya's ribs.

After that, Kyouya is too busy to track the blows they exchange and dodge. He is accustomed to fighting with two tonfa; the absence of the one leaves him feeling fractionally unbalanced. Yamamoto normally fights with blades, not barehanded, and so is not in his top form either. Still, it's an adequate fight. Kyouya tastes blood in his mouth after one of Yamamoto's punches connects; when they overbalance and go crashing to the ground, Yamamoto already has bruises beginning to pattern his torso, purpling fast and looking ugly.

The fine dust rises up around them, hazing the air as they grapple with each other. It streaks Yamamoto's skin and turns to mud as it mixes with his sweat and makes Kyouya cough as he wrestles with Yamamoto. Both of them are striving to subdue the other and neither can quite manage to gain the upper hand. Kyouya is on top of Yamamoto, refusing to let him use his greater height and bulk to turn them, no matter how Yamamoto bucks and twists under him. But Yamamoto has both his hands on Kyouya's wrists; the muscles stand out in his upper arms with how determined his grip is, and Kyouya can't get the purchase to strike him and finish the fight. They strain against each other, deadlocked and panting, silent except for the sound of their breathing. The sun overhead scorches Kyouya's back through his shirt (which is plastered to his skin now with sweat) before Yamamoto stops trying to writhe out from beneath him.

Something like disappointment twists through the uncompromising joy of the fight—Kyouya isn't ready to stop yet, far from it—before Yamamoto raises his head. Kyouya's first thought is one of grudging approval (he would not have expected Yamamoto to be the sort of fighter who'd remember to use his teeth), but it gets swept away in confusion when Yamamoto seals his mouth against Kyouya's.

Kyouya goes still, baffled by this sudden swerve in Yamamoto's agenda just long enough for Yamamoto to slide his tongue between Kyouya's lips. The feel of it is gritty from the dust in the air and flavored with salt and iron, strange and soft where Kyouya has braced himself for the bite of teeth. Yamamoto shifts the angle of his head and flicks his tongue through Kyouya's mouth, flirting it against Kyouya's and over his palate, forestalling Kyouya's first instinct (attack) and his second (retreat) by appealing to his curiosity with the way it feels. Kyouya is not stupid and has known for some time that people derive pleasure from kissing, enough pleasure that he does a regular business in driving the ones willing to risk his wrath from the hidden corners of school grounds. Until now, however, he hasn't quite been certain what the appeal might be.

Yamamoto slides his tongue against Kyouya's again, the stroke of it slow and strange and wet. Then he drops his head back and looks at Kyouya, still and watchful, asking a silent question with the way he crooks his eyebrows. (He hasn't let go of Kyouya's wrists, either; whatever else Yamamoto might be, he's a reasonably astute tactician.)

He waits and Kyouya experiences another wash of reluctant approval, this time that Yamamoto is deft enough to know how to make an offer and then wait for the response. On the other hand, he dislikes interruptions quite a bit, and this is unquestionably an interruption to their fight.

Or perhaps it isn't.

Kyouya is sprawled on top of Yamamoto. Now that he doesn't have to deal with Yamamoto's trying to dislodge him, Kyouya can feel that there is something pressing against his hip, something hard that is completely the wrong shape and place to be Yamamoto's box weapon.

This realization makes Kyouya blink, disconcerted. (He's been convinced for a long time that the real difference between himself and the herds of herbivores that perennially plague him is the visceral pleasure he takes from the fight.) Yamamoto's expression stays steady, waiting, until Kyouya bears down against him, applying experimental friction and pressure to that hardness beneath his hip. _Then_ Yamamoto's entire expression changes: his mouth falls open and his eyes go unfocused as he groans, the sound unexpectedly deep. There is something in that reaction that Kyouya likes, so he does it again, shifting himself to slide his thigh between Yamamoto's and grinding it against him.

Yamamoto gasps and drops his head back as he lifts his hips up, rocking them against Kyouya's thigh and rubbing against him, unselfconscious as a cat. It bares his throat, shows the soft skin under his chin damp with sweat and the pulse beating at the base of his throat, fluttering just beneath the weight of the Rain ring. A part of Kyouya disapproves of that—it seems inappropriate that Yamamoto should show submission so easily—but then, Yamamoto's grip on his wrists is still solid and there is something appealing in this, too.

Kyouya bears down on him, grinding his thigh against Yamamoto and listening to the sound that friction drags out of him, a sound that is hoarse and hungry. Yamamoto moves under him again; he plants his feet against the ground and rolls his hips up, matching the downward pressure of Kyouya's thigh against his cock, falling into a quick, urgent rhythm with him. Yamamoto's eyes are half-closed, but Kyouya can see the gleam of iris and pupil from beneath his lids; Yamamoto is still watching him.

But not for long. Kyouya shifts his weight again, adjusting to the staccato movement of Yamamoto's hips under his. Yamamoto's breathing goes deep and harsh before he groans, straining against Kyouya with his eyes pressed shut and his mouth open for the sounds he makes. Then he relaxes all at once, sprawling against the ground with beads of fresh sweat making new tracks through the dust and mud on his skin.

Kyouya becomes aware of two things in that moment: the first is that there is a hungry curl of want coiling itself in the pit of his stomach, the kind of restless sense of incompletion that he is used to feeling after a fight and to seeing to with his own hand when the occasion calls for it. The second is that Yamamoto's hands have loosened.

Yamamoto's breathing has only just begun to slow when Kyouya twists his hands free; he makes a startled, dazed sound and opens his eyes as Kyouya levers himself up. He's lost that alert, watchful expression from before, at least for the moment—it's been blunted by his pleasure, though that fades fast as Yamamoto realizes that Kyouya is sitting over him and still has a tonfa in his hand. He doesn't look _afraid_ (a part of Kyouya notes that with satisfaction; Yamamoto is a carnivore after all) but he does look cautious, suitably so. After a moment, he wets his lips. "Well?"

His hands rest against the ground, loose and open and ready, Kyouya thinks, to defend himself if it is warranted. But he's waiting to see what Kyouya decides, just like before.

Kyouya is beginning to think that Yamamoto might actually have a subtle streak.

He puts the tonfa down; it raises a little puff of dust and Yamamoto's eyes widen by the barest fraction. Then they go wider, because Kyouya is still hard and means to do something about that, which means undoing his fly and reaching inside for his cock. Yamamoto stares as he does, watching avidly as Kyouya folds his fingers around himself and strokes, one long pull up and down, which sends pleasure buzzing along his nerves in response. Another stroke and Kyouya can see that Yamamoto's eyes are fixed on his cock as his hands curl in on themselves. A third and Yamamoto sucks in a breath that makes his chest heave and says, "You want some help with that?"

Kyouya considers the question as he runs his fingers up and down, the pace leisurely because he prefers the slow build of pleasure to immediate gratification. Yamamoto is intent on him in a way that Kyouya finds both peculiar (because Yamamoto has much the same expression now as he had when they were fighting, and before, when he was emptying that bucket of baseballs) and gratifying. _Does_ he want that?

"No," he decides. He doesn't miss the way Yamamoto's eyes spark; it makes him smile, because Yamamoto has had far too many things his own way this afternoon.

Yamamoto bites his lip, sinking his teeth into his lower lip until it turns white under the pressure, but abides by Kyouya's response. It puts an edge to the pleasure that Kyouya is finding, as little sense as that makes, and he takes his time, making each sliding pull of his fist last as long as it can, letting the pleasure build until he can't help the way his hips twitch and he is hovering on the edge of release. Yamamoto drinks it all in, flexing his hands open and closed and sweeping his eyes over Kyouya (to his face, down again, back up, like he wants to see everything at once) and breathes faster the closer Kyouya can feel himself getting. He stays silent, though, respecting Kyouya's preference, which Kyouya approves of.

He takes his hand away from his cock, though it is difficult to do when all he needs is a little more, and flicks his fingers at Yamamoto. "Now," he commands.

Yamamoto exhales, the sound shaky, and stretches a hand down to him. He slides his fingers around Kyouya, running his thumb up the underside of his cock and over the head. It's nothing Kyouya hasn't done himself a hundred times over, but the difference between _doing_ and _having__done_ are suddenly, vividly apparent. The friction of Yamamoto's thumb dragging over him, calloused differently from his own hand, forces a gasp out of Kyouya as sensations jolts through him, a thousand times more intense for the brief interruption. Kyouya thrusts against Yamamoto's fist, panting as Yamamoto mimics the slow pace he'd set for himself. Then Yamamoto slides his thumb over Kyouya's head again, back and forth, and release smashes through Kyouya, driving the breath from him and greying out his vision.

Yamamoto is still watching him when Kyouya begins to catch his breath and reorder his thinking in the aftermath; it takes him a moment to realize that he's staring back, tracing his eyes over the sweat and the dust and the bruises that streak Yamamoto's chest and the wet spot that darkens the front of his jeans. There's a mess on Yamamoto's fingers and on his stomach, too, from how hard Kyouya's just come, and the way he keeps his eyes on Kyouya is careful. Watchful. He looks like he's waiting for Kyouya again, to do something, maybe, though Kyouya scarcely knows what.

He tenses when Kyouya reaches for the tonfa he set down, but he doesn't say anything. That is acceptable, Kyouya decides, more so than other possibilities, so he slides his tonfa into its customary resting place and does up his fly.

Despite the pleasure of having found a good fight, and the diversion after, he feels jumpy, strange in his skin, which is not a feeling he enjoys. He stands and stalks over to retrieve his other tonfa from where Yamamoto threw it; that he has to do this reminds him of his earlier anger. Part of him is very tempted to take this strange, unsettled feeling and vent it on Yamamoto, the proximate cause.

He doesn't, not least because he's uneasily aware that it might not end the way it ought, with Yamamoto properly chastised and his own equanimity restored. It's an uncomfortable thought, one he promptly ignores.

Most unsettling of all is what happens when he turns back to Yamamoto, feeling that he ought to at least make sure Yamamoto knows that further unusual behavior will not be tolerated. Yamamoto has regained his own feet and is standing with his hands stuffed in his pockets. He is a mess, filthy from head to toe, and the weight of his hands has dragged the waistband of his jeans down even farther down his hips, showing the crests of his hipbones and the edge of a line of dark hair. The weight of his hands also stretches the denim taut; it looks like he might be getting hard again, which puts a hot feeling at the pit of Kyouya's own stomach.

(He knows that most people find other individuals attractive; until now, however, like kissing, he hasn't seen what the point of it might be.)

When Yamamoto tips his head to the side, looking like he's on the verge of saying something, Kyouya breaks his stare away and decides that he is done after all. He leaves without saying another word, perturbed by the feeling that Yamamoto watches him until he turns the corner of the equipment shed, and seeks the privacy of his office to restore himself to order and assimilate this strange encounter.

And if part of that involves standing at his window and observing as Yamamoto, his figure made small by the distance, gathers up the scattered baseballs, it is no one's business but his own.

**end**

Comments are lovely!


	2. Deluge

**Title:** Deluge  
><strong>Pairings:<strong> Hibari/Yamamoto  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Yamamoto is still acting strangely, and Hibari still doesn't quite know what he thinks of what's going on.  
><strong>Notes:<strong> Adult for smut. Violence as foreplay; yet another love-letter to Yamamoto's essential hotness. 4205 words.

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><p><strong>Deluge<strong>

Kyouya does not know what he thinks of his encounter with Yamamoto, so he does not think of it at all. There is his territory to watch over and the school to keep in order; the heat has inclined everyone to sloppiness and disorder and thus, accordingly, he spends a great deal of time over the next few days chastening the ones who think that the heat should allow them to disgrace Namimori's uniform.

(Yamamoto, he notices without acknowledging that he is doing so, appears each day with his uniform in perfect order and a smile on his face, an arm slung around Sawada and a ready laugh for Gokudera. He shows no signs of being anything but Sawada's loyal dog.)

None of the reprimands Kyouya administers are worth calling fights; they are barely scuffles, a blow here and a kick there to push the sheep back into proper behavior. That irritates Kyouya more than the sloppiness the heat inspires; he roams Namimori restlessly, seeking a proper fight, but it's too hot for anyone to step outside the lines of proper behavior. (And perhaps people are aware that he is in no mood to be trifled with. Normally he would find this satisfying, but just now it adds another layer to his frustration.)

His Sunday patrol is almost perfunctory, though Kyouya is as scrupulous with his own duties as he is everyone else's. But his territory is quiet; he paces along the sidewalks and streets and has no cause to linger upon them.

Not until he reaches the school.

Yamamoto is there again, alone for the first time Kyouya has seen all week, and he is on the sports field again. What he is doing there has nothing to do with sports at all. He has that blade of his and is running through proper kata with it, forms that flow from one to the next the same way water flows downhill. He does not use the ring or the box for this. It is simply him, the blade, and the sunlight beating down on him as he paces through the dust, lunging and spinning, crouching and striking.

Such kata, old and formal, demand proper attire—hakama with their seven folds, kimono and haori to flutter with each sweeping, controlled movement, geta and tabi to whisper through the swirling dust—but Yamamoto is wearing no such thing. The cut-offs he wears are so old and faded that there is no saying what their original color might have been. Now they are a nondescript grey, at least in the places they are not otherwise discolored by patches of paint or other, less identifiable stains or simply worn to threads. They end just above Yamamoto's knees in a ragged, uneven mass of dangling threads, and hang off Yamamoto's hips, quite possibly the only thing Yamamoto is currently wearing. (Kyouya can see the blade of his hips and, when Yamamoto spins and crouches, the pit end of his spine.)

The bruises from their last encounter have faded almost to nothing; Kyouya has to look closely to see the fading yellow and brown patterns across Yamamoto's torso because they blend into the golden tan of his skin and the natural patterns of shadow that his muscles make as he moves.

Kyouya watches him through a full iteration of his forms, until Yamamoto comes to the end of them (the current end; Kyouya knows full well that Yamamoto has added several forms to his style already and will likely continue to do so as necessity and his whims so move him). He holds himself in the final form for several seconds, balanced on the balls of his feet and his blade held in a thrust that, were Yamamoto facing a breathing enemy, would have slid up under the ribs and through the lungs and heart. The dust floats through the air around Yamamoto, hazing it gold in the sunlight, and begins to settle again before Yamamoto releases the form, flowing out of it and turning to face Kyouya in the same movement.

There is live steel in his hands and a calm, expectant look on his face, like he's waiting for something. Kyouya gazes at him until Yamamoto lifts his eyebrows just a bit and shifts the angle of his blade, bringing it into a guarded stance.

The invitation is obvious; Kyouya accepts it.

Kyouya reaches for his tonfa and rushes forward; Yamamoto holds his ground until the last moment. Then he spins into movement again, deflecting one tonfa with the blade and stepping aside from the other. Kyouya has fought with him and seen him fight, has seen his forms in kata and in battle, and knows to expect that deflection. He reverses his blow and lands a glancing strike across Yamamoto's hip. Yamamoto grunts and ducks, spinning into a low crouch and bringing his blade around even more quickly than Kyouya had expected him to. The strike of it against his shoulder is sharp and stings, but does not break skin—Yamamoto has reversed the blade, is striking with mune instead of edge.

Kyouya hisses and spins his tonfa, bringing it down on Yamamoto, who doesn't quite elude the strike. It glances off his shoulder, next to the fading mark of an older bruise.

This is not quite a fight, Kyouya thinks as they spin and circle around each other, though it has all the forms but the one—Yamamoto may have turned the blade, but he is not restraining himself otherwise (Kyouya's strikes would not have permitted him to, in any case). His expression is absolutely focused and intent, and he meets each of Kyouya's attacks readily, turning them aside or accepting them when he must. If Yamamoto were anyone else, he would be groaning in the dust already, bitten nearly to death. That he isn't, that he is strong and fast enough to meet Kyouya on this ground, puts a strange, hot feeling inside of Kyouya, one that he cannot name and that drives him onward in this strange not-fight. He lashes at Yamamoto again and again, expecting this strike to the jaw to be the one that will drop Yamamoto, this thrust to the stomach to send him reeling and coughing, this twist of his tonfa to break Yamamoto's grip on his blade (and perhaps his wrist as well). But Yamamoto ducks the tonfa to his jaw and slices his blade through the air next to Kyouya's cheek; he catches the thrust with his blade and turns it aside; his wrist isn't there when Kyouya swings at it.

Each time he evades Kyouya, the feeling inside Kyouya winds tighter and tighter, to the edge of what is bearable and then beyond. He doesn't know what to call it, or what they are doing, but Yamamoto matches him until they are both gasping for breath in the heat and Yamamoto's skin is slick with sweat. Kyouya can feel the shirt plastered to his own skin and the hair that is dripping sweat into his eyes. It, whatever it is, ends when Yamamoto fails to completely deflect a blow and Kyouya's tonfa hits him with more force than any of his previous blows. But Kyouya does not, cannot follow through with a properly finishing strike, because Yamamoto's blade is resting against his throat, the mune digging into the side of it and the sun-hot breadth of the blade lying across his clavicle.

They are too close. The heat rolls off Yamamoto's body and his breath, ragged and a little pained, stirs the air against Kyouya's cheek. It is too hot to be so close to anyone, but Kyouya doesn't move. Neither does Yamamoto, who watches Kyouya and blinks sweat and water out of his eyes as his mouth hangs open to gulp for air.

The feeling in Kyouya's chest turns sharp as Yamamoto passes his tongue over his lips. The sense memory, one bare week old, flashes through Kyouya's mind—softness, the taste of iron, Yamamoto's tongue against his—and he acts on it. The blade is still at his throat, so he hooks an arm around Yamamoto and pulls him closer. When their mouths collide, it's too rough—Yamamoto's teeth bruise his lips.

Strangely enough, that feels right.

Yamamoto grunts again and opens his mouth to Kyouya's, welcoming Kyouya's tongue when he slides it between Yamamoto's lips. Kyouya tastes blood, though he's not sure whether it's his own or Yamamoto's or whether it even matters. Yamamoto's tongue is slick against his; he shifts his head, angling his mouth against Kyouya's so that they fit together better, and kisses back.

Hunger. It's hunger that twists inside Kyouya. He recognizes the knife edge of it now, the burn of it twisting in his gut. It wrenches at him as he bites Yamamoto's lip and Yamamoto groans, makes him want to drop his tonfa and seize hold of Yamamoto and somehow wring that sound out of him again. It is not a rational feeling, this hunger that makes his cock throb, heavy and hard, and so Kyouya pulls away from Yamamoto's mouth, disoriented by the rush of it.

Yamamoto is breathing as hard as he is; his mouth is slick and red and swollen. He licks his lips again, the point of his tongue darting out to lap at the place that is split. The movement of it draws Kyouya's eyes in spite of himself (what is he _doing_?).

Kyouya hisses between his teeth and pulls away from Yamamoto, retreating from him and this encounter, and Yamamoto lets him go.

He favors the high places of campus; it soothes something in him to perch on the roofs and look down on his domain, well above the eyes of anyone else. Kyouya seeks the closest such refuge now, climbing to the roof of the athletic clubhouse the moment he is away from Yamamoto's eyes. It is flat and shaded by the tree whose branches have allowed him access to it; it will be a good place to compose himself.

It also provides a place from which to view the sports field, where Yamamoto is still standing. He has lowered his sword in the moments since Kyouya left him. It dangles from his hand now, forgotten, as Yamamoto raises his other hand to touch his mouth. He glances at his fingers and shakes his head, then touches his side, exploring his ribs. Even from this distance and height, Kyouya can see the way Yamamoto is careful of them as he fans his fingers over them, touching each one in turn.

After a moment longer, Yamamoto satisfies himself with his explorations and walks over to the place where a bundle of cloth sits with the sheath of his sword. He sheathes the blade and gathers up the bundle, then turns toward the clubhouse.

There are lockers inside, Kyouya knows, because the school is his domain and he has made it his business to know every part of it; Yamamoto must have something stored inside which he wishes to retrieve. Indeed, Yamamoto is aiming at the door, and he is one of Namimori's favored athletes—he must have a key to access it. Hibari watches him.

Just before Yamamoto ducks inside, he tilts his head up and looks directly at Kyouya. His gaze is steady and he holds Kyouya's eyes with it for several seconds before he looks down again and goes inside.

Kyouya cannot be sure from this angle, but it rather looks as though the door is ajar.

Another invitation, if he chooses to accept it. Kyouya stares down at the place where Yamamoto was just standing, reluctantly admitting to the deftness of the gesture. It is an invitation, just as the way Yamamoto had angled his blade and offered a fight had been, and it remains to Kyouya to decide whether he will do anything about it.

(Yamamoto _is_ subtle.)

The bark of the tree that shades this roof crumbles under his fingers as he seizes a branch and swings himself down. He drops from the lowest branch and lands in a crouch that jolts up his knees and hips and sends up a puff of dust to swirl around his ankles. There is no one else on campus, so no one will ever know that Kyouya pauses for a moment before he steps around the corner of the building.

The door is indeed standing a few centimeters ajar. Kyouya pulls it shut after himself.

The inside of the clubhouse is dark in comparison to the brazen sunlight outside, save for a bar of light that slashes across the floor—it comes from the room beyond this outer room of benches and individual cubbyholes and picks out the rumpled pile of Yamamoto's clothes lying on a bench with his sword. The air is musty, thick with the smell of old sweat and testosterone.

There is water running in the next room.

Kyouya follows the sound of it, picking his way around the benches on soundless feet and padding into the next room. It's brightly lit with fluorescent lights that reflect off the industrial white tile of the floor and the steel fixtures of the sinks; the sound of the running water is louder in here. Kyouya follows it past the row of sinks and toilet stalls and around a cinderblock partition to where there is a row of shower heads lining the wall.

Yamamoto is standing beneath one; the water streams down his naked body. It flattens the hair to his skull and sheets over his shoulders and back, down over his ass and thighs and calves before it swirls across the floor and down the drain. His bruises are rising fast now, darkening to purple on his shoulder and ribs and hip, angry and livid.

Yamamoto doesn't seem to be heeding them much at the moment. He has one hand braced against the wall, his fingers splayed wide against the tile, and he leans on it, his spine describing a smooth arc. He has his other hand wrapped around his cock and is stroking it, playing his fingers over the head and running them down the shaft. What Kyouya can see of his expression is abstracted with concentration, eyes half-lidded and his lips parted for breath.

As Kyouya watches, Yamamoto slides his fingers over the head of his cock again with a twisting little flourish. It must feel good, because he makes a sound, a husky one just audible over the rush of the water, and Kyouya finds himself drawing a quick breath as the hunger from before surges up again, even more intense.

He has done nothing—neither moved nor made a sound—but perhaps Yamamoto can feel himself being watched. He turns his head and looks directly at Kyouya. The dreaminess fades from his expression, leaving his eyes alert, if heavy-lidded and dark.

And he's still stroking his cock, sliding his fingers back and forth, each flex of his wrist deliberate. The water slides over him, runs down his arms in steady rivulets and over the flushed skin of his cock, making strange patterns against the paler skin of his ass and upper thighs.

Kyouya's own cock presses against the tightness of his slacks, hard enough to ache. Yamamoto must be able to see that, but he stays where he is, fisting his cock slowly as the water gurgles in the drain and Kyouya watches him. The hiss of the spray is the only other sound in the room until Yamamoto slides his thumb over the head of his cock and gasps.

Kyouya steps toward him; the soles of his shoes tap against the tile and the sound echoes off the walls. Yamamoto stills as he approaches, watching him pace the length of the showers. When Kyouya reaches the wet tiles, his shoes squeak against them, the sound loud and strange; the tap squawks a protest when he reaches out and twists it off.

The silence after the last of the water rattles down the drain is loud, broken only by the sound of Yamamoto's quick breaths. He hasn't moved since Kyouya began to stalk toward him, but now that Kyouya has come to a stop less than an arm's length away, he straightens up, turns to face Kyouya, and lets his hands fall to his side. The water beads on his skin and slides down his chest and stomach with every small movement he makes.

"Hey," he says, voice soft, and that's the first thing either of them have said to each other all afternoon. He doesn't say anything else. Kyouya doesn't know what he _could_ say, really. (Words are useless enough in ordinary circumstances; what good would they be for this?)

Kyouya lifts a hand and touches a fingertip to the water that is pooling in the wing of Yamamoto's collarbone instead of replying. The water is cooler than he expected, tepid where it beads on Yamamoto's skin—sensible of him not to take a hot shower in this weather. Yamamoto's throat moves as he swallows, and bobs again as Kyouya follows the path that a bead of water takes as it slides down his chest. Yamamoto's skin is warm beneath his fingertips, slippery from the shower, and jumps and shivers as Kyouya touches him. His cock lies against his stomach, flushed dark with blood. When Kyouya trails his fingertip along the length of it, Yamamoto gasps. It's a curiously open sound; Kyouya glances at him, tracking the way Yamamoto gulps for breath, and smoothes his fingertip over the head, tracing the shape of it and the slickness beading there.

It makes Yamamoto moan when he does, sudden and open, and the hunger in Kyouya turns sharp in response to that sound. He wraps his fingers around Yamamoto's cock, weighing the shape and size of it in his palm as Yamamoto's lashes flutter over his eyes and he makes a hoarse sound. It's a satisfying weight, Kyouya decides, fitting his fingers around Yamamoto and stroking him. Yamamoto presses into his fist, rocking his hips against it, short jerks that match the low, urgent sounds that escape his throat, sounds that Kyouya has never heard another person make before, sounds that are open and hungry and pleased, unselfconscious as the look of naked pleasure on Yamamoto's face. They send a curl of something like satisfaction twisting through Kyouya. He tightens his fingers around Yamamoto, dragging his thumb over the head of his cock, and that's it—Yamamoto cries out and his cock throbs in Kyouya's hand as he comes.

This is the second time Kyouya has watched him do that. This time he fastens on the way Yamamoto's throat flushes with color as his hips jerk against Kyouya's hand and his shout echoes off the tiles, loud in the silence of the room. He wobbles and flails a hand out, catching it against the wall as his chest heaves. When he opens his eyes, he looks as though he's just taken a stunning blow. He stares at Kyouya, eyes dazed, and the tendril of Kyouya's satisfaction turns warm (this is _his_ doing).

His fingers are sticky with Yamamoto's come; he glances at the mess when he releases Yamamoto. Before he can decide what to do about it (there are sinks on the other side of the partition, a tissue in his pocket), Yamamoto makes a sound.

No, words.

"Let me...?" he says, his voice as raspy as it's never been used.

Kyouya frowns—let him _what?_—but Yamamoto reaches for his hand before he can puzzle it out. He lifts it gingerly, eyes darting to Kyouya's as he does, and bends his head down to flick his tongue over Kyouya's fingers.

_Oh._

Yamamoto's tongue is soft against his fingertips, startlingly warm; he keeps his eyes on Kyouya's as he scours Kyouya's fingers clean. His lashes are still wet, clumped together in spikes, and desire jolts through Kyouya like a fist to the gut. It knocks the breath out of him and leaves him staring at Yamamoto and the pink shard of Yamamoto's tongue as it slides along his fingers, and he is dizzy with the way his pulse hammers in his ears and his cock throbs in time with it.

Yamamoto's grip is loose; he holds Kyouya's fingers lightly as he laps at them. Then he just holds them, his eyes steady as he watches Kyouya, before he parts his lips and slides them over Kyouya's finger, drawing it into his mouth and sucking on it.

Kyouya can't help the sound he makes, as hoarse as the ones Yamamoto was making before. Yamamoto's eyes flicker and turn dark, and he draws back. His lips shine red and wet, but he passes his tongue over them anyway and says, again, "Let me...?"

"Yes," Kyouya says, though he doesn't know what he's agreeing to. Doesn't quite care, either, as long as it means doing something about the hunger twisting in his gut.

"Okay," Yamamoto breathes. He releases Kyouya's hand and reaches for his belt. Kyouya notices that Yamamoto's fingers aren't quite steady, but he's too lightheaded with arousal to make any meaning of that, especially once Yamamoto gets the buckle undone and unfastens his slacks. Kyouya hisses then, relief surging through him as that releases the pressure on his cock.

Yamamoto glances at him again, something about the way he does it almost... searching, and settles a hand on Kyouya's hip. There's no reason for him to be doing that, or for the way he hasn't done anything yet about getting his hand on Kyouya's cock.

But then Yamamoto sinks to his knees, folding up in a single smooth motion and balancing himself with the hand on Kyouya's hip. He has to tilt his head back to look up at Kyouya, and it shows the line of his throat when he does. He slips his other hand into Kyouya's underwear to find his cock. The breath Kyouya sucks in through his teeth is so sharp that it cuts his throat; the sensation as Yamamoto eases his cock out of his underwear is so immediate and intense that he can't quite encompass it. All he can do is gasp as Yamamoto strokes his fingers along the shaft—the calluses on Yamamoto's fingers are water-softened, but they drag against Kyouya's skin until he shudders and reaches out, half on instinct, to grip Yamamoto's bare shoulders. They're broad and solid under his palms, still damp from his shower, and he's glad of their support when Yamamoto leans forward and guides Kyouya's cock into his mouth.

More sensation than Kyouya can process slams through him, punching a groan out of his throat. He digs his fingers into Yamamoto's shoulders, hunching over him as Yamamoto slips his mouth down over the head of his cock. It's so _hot_, shockingly so; fresh sweat prickles down Kyouya's spine as he pants for breath, chest heaving with the effort of gulping in oxygen. He rolls his hips forward, instinct driving him to seek more before he can even begin to assimilate just how good Yamamoto's mouth, soft and wet, feels around him.

Yamamoto makes a sound as Kyouya does and curls his fingers around Kyouya's cock, keeping him from pushing too deep. His eyes are wide and dark and he gazes up at Kyouya as he sucks; the sudden pressure of that keeps Kyouya from registering the way Yamamoto watches him on anything more than the vaguest of levels. He makes another sound, his mouth vibrating around Kyouya, and sensation ripples through Kyouya in response, drawing him to the edge of coming just from that. Then Yamamoto runs his tongue over Kyouya's head, tracing it along the underside and over the slit, and Kyouya comes apart, bucking into that soft-slick touch and groaning as his pleasure strips him open. It leaves him shaking after, weak-kneed and bracing himself on Yamamoto's shoulders as the last echoes of the sounds he's made die away.

As he stares down at Yamamoto, stunned motionless, Yamamoto draws back, letting Kyouya's cock slip free of his lips (red, and wet, and marked with the split from before). Yamamoto's eyes never leave his, not even when he uncurls his hand from around Kyouya's cock and lifts it to blot the corner of his mouth.

It dazes Kyouya, how easily Yamamoto has given him this, has offered it up without a second thought, and leaves him off balance and unsure. He pulls away, retreating from Yamamoto and the shaky, uncertain aftermath looming up (what are they _doing_?). His shoes squeak against the wet tile as he does, unnaturally loud, and Yamamoto is left with a hand extended, grasping empty air as Kyouya restores his clothes to order. He is blinking, surprised, and opens his mouth as if to say something.

Kyouya doesn't wait to see what it will be. He retreats, stalking out of the clubhouse on rapid feet, unsettled and angry at feeling so, especially when it refuses to dissipate with the distance he puts between himself and Yamamoto.

As he retreats to the sanctuary of his office, Kyouya has a disquieting premonition that it will not be leaving him any time soon.

**end**

Comments are always lovely!


	3. Drought

**Title:** Drought  
><strong>Characters and Pairings:<strong> Yamamoto/Hibari; Tsuna, Yamamoto Tsuyoshi  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Hibari isn't the only one who's noticed that Yamamoto is behaving a bit oddly, and Yamamoto deals with that.  
><strong>Notes:<strong> Adult for smut. 5018 words.

* * *

><p><strong>Drought<strong>

The heat finally breaks when a storm blows inland from the coast. It brings cooler winds with it and a solid day of rain that settles the dust and washes the air clean and revives just about everyone as far as Takeshi can see, even after the sun comes back out again and everything begins to steam dry. It's still not as hot as it was before, which is the important thing. Gokudera's overall temper improves (Takeshi can tell because now when Gokudera yells, it's because he's just bad at being normal, not because he's actually angry) and Tsuna perks up again and begins to resume his usual interest in the world around him.

It's hardly a surprise when Tsuna glances at him as they meander homeward after school—Tsuna's home, that is, which is almost as much Takeshi's home these days as his own, or so Tousan says with a grin—and says, diffident, "Is there, um, something going on I should know about?"

The only real surprise is that it's taken him this long to say anything, Takeshi supposes. The guys on the team have been giving him sidelong looks for a full week and some change now. _They_ haven't said anything. They stopped asking years ago, after it first became clear that Tsuna was something more than anyone had previously given him credit for being and that he was pulling certain people, Takeshi among them, along with him.

And he's getting sidetracked from the question. No surprises there; he's been expecting this, even when he wasn't quite sure what he was going to say about it when people (let's be honest, Tsuna and Tousan) started to notice that there's something going on. Now it's here and he still doesn't know what he's going to say.

So Takeshi stuffs his hands in his pockets and smiles at Tsuna. "Beg pardon?"

He gives it even odds whether Tsuna's going to buy it, but anything's worth a shot, especially when Gokudera's on Tsuna's other shoulder and still grumbling to himself over the injustice of Nagai-sensei's decision to assign extra homework to Tsuna to make up for an awful performance on their last test. (This is a point regarding which Takeshi agrees with him in full; Tsuna doesn't _need_ the kinds of math that Nagai-sensei teaches, not where he's going, and besides, he has Gokudera and Haru to know these things for him. But try explaining that to Nagai-sensei.) Gokudera's pretty reliably distracting, after all, especially when he gets wound up on the respect due the Tenth.

But maybe not this time. Tsuna bites his lip and gestures, waving his fingers at Takeshi's arm. "You have a lot of bruises lately."

Takeshi glances down to where there's a bar of purple stretching across his forearm, precisely the width of a tonfa. He thinks it's from where he deflected a strike for his jaw the hard way. "Huh," he says, knowing how vague that sounds. "I guess?"

Tsuna wouldn't be Tsuna if he just accepted that, Takeshi guesses. Or something. They amble along in silence—relative silence; Gokudera is muttering away about blackmailing Nagai-sensei into respecting the Vongola's dignity—while Tsuna chews on his lip and looks worried. Then he says, sounding troubled, "You'd tell me if there was something wrong, wouldn't you?"

"Of course." There's no question of that, because it's Tsuna. If there were trouble, Takeshi wouldn't even blink before turning to him. "What else would I do?"

The look Tsuna gets then is too old for his age, like all of a sudden he's the man he's growing up to be. "I wonder." He sounds tired.

Yeah, so there's that. Takeshi sucks in a breath through his teeth, not a careful one, and it makes his side ache. "Everything's okay," he says, which is pretty much the truth. "Nothing's wrong." Also true, as far as it goes. He thinks. It just leaves a lot of things… silent. Yeah, silent.

He doesn't know how to talk about those things, though, is the thing.

The problem with hanging out with a guy who's got a hyperactive intuition is that sometimes he uses it when a guy would really rather he not. Like right now. "There're things you're not telling me." It's funny how Tsuna changes when he pulls out the Vongola stuff; he goes from quiet and self-effacing to quiet and self-assured. The switch is startling enough in its own right that Takeshi suspects that it's half the reason Tsuna gets the kinds of results he does.

The other half, of course, is the Will that backs all that self-assurance up. Takeshi reacts to that like he always does, exhaling and straightening up. Coming to heel. "Yeah," he admits and sees the way it makes Tsuna frown. That makes him feel bad, kind of, so he adds, "Really. It's okay."

And he also doesn't exactly want to talk about it, not like this where anyone can see them ambling along the sidewalk or listen if, if he wanted. Maybe if it were just him and Tsuna over a cup of tea or something. He glances past Tsuna to Gokudera.

Tsuna sees that and gets it. Takeshi can tell by the way his eyes narrow. They make it a few meters down the sidewalk before Tsuna says, quiet, "I'm always ready to listen."

"Yeah," Takeshi says. "I know."

Tsuna nods and leaves it at that. It's probably only a temporary reprieve, but Takeshi figures he can live with that.

* * *

><p>Hibari-san is scarce—scarcer than usual, that is. He's always a little bit elusive, and the only real thing anyone can count on with him is that he'll turn up for a fight or wherever there are people behaving in an inappropriately sheeplike fashion.<p>

Takeshi wonders sometimes what Hibari-san has against groups, anyway. His standards for grouping behavior are mysterious; he generally ignores the school sports teams, which are groups by _definition_, but he prosecutes his justice against groups of friends who shouldn't be the least bit offensive. Well, from an outsider's perspective, anyway. They must be managing to offend Hibari-san somehow, obviously.

But Hibari-san is around less than he usually is. Normally Takeshi sees him prowling around the school or watching it from some perch or another, or at least sees him out and about around town. Takeshi hasn't seen much of him though. Not since Sunday. Not since he walked away.

He probably ought to be upset by that, or something. It's not like he has a whole lot of experience to be drawing on—any experience, come right down to it—but a sort of ambient general knowledge tells Takeshi that cutting and running after receiving a blowjob really isn't the done thing. On the other hand, Takeshi's very specific, concrete knowledge of Hibari Kyouya says that a swift retreat after a brand-new experience is perfectly in keeping with Hibari-san's nature, especially when that brand-new experience might somehow be construed as being sheeplike. Also, there's precedent: Hibari-san walked away the first time, too, though not quite as fast. Getting upset with Hibari-san for being himself is about as useful as yelling at a volcano for erupting or something. It won't do any good, is the thing.

Anyway, Takeshi isn't angry, which is just one of the reasons he'd really not talk about what's going on, not with Tsuna or anyone else. He's pretty sure that if he tries to explain, it's going to go all wrong. All they'll hear is the words that he says, and Takeshi's perfectly aware that words aren't his strong point. So he'll _say_ that he and Hibari-san have been fighting and getting each other off after and that Hibari-san doesn't seem to have quite figured out what he thinks about that. What he's pretty sure they'll _hear_ is that he and Hibari-san are beating the snot out of each other and that this gets them hot and bothered and that Hibari-san fucks and runs.

And, okay. He can't actually deny that, exactly, but it's only part of the truth. And Takeshi doesn't know the words that would fit the other part of it, because it's not something that he can explain. It's something that he feels instead. Tsuna isn't a fighter and neither is Gokudera—they _will_ fight, and they do when they have to, but it's not something they enjoy. It's more like a duty, is the thing, something that has to be done so they do it and get it over with as quickly as possible. If they get any kind of rush from it, it's the kind that comes from adrenaline and surviving a brush with danger. Incidental. Not something to seek out in its own right. Not something to savor.

Ryouhei-senpai would probably understand it, if only the thought of trying to hold a conversation with him didn't make Takeshi's eyes cross. But Ryouhei-senpai _gets_ competition, the kind against an opponent and the kind against the self. He'd get why courting fights with Hibari-san makes sense. Probably. Takeshi doesn't feel much like trying to test that theory out. It'd end with having to persuade Ryouhei-senpai that he's still not interested in boxing, anyway.

Lambo is right out, naturally, and so are Mukuro and Chrome. No one knows where Mukuro is right now anyway, even if Takeshi felt like baring his soul to the guy who looks at the rest of the world like it's his own personal cat toy, and Chrome is… well, Takeshi likes Chrome a lot, but her perspective is kind of off-kilter even by Vongola standards. Also, there's the sex thing, which Takeshi isn't at all sure he could talk to her about without feeling very strange doing it. Besides, it'd all go straight to Mukuro anyway.

Now that he's thinking about it, he and Hibari-san have even more in common than he'd previously noticed. Makes sense of why things are going the way they are, now that he's looking at it. All kinds of sense, because Hibari-san… Takeshi's sure that Hibari-san feels like this all the time, itching to move and fight and _test_ everything.

Part of him wants to ask Hibari-san and see if he's right, but that would require finding Hibari-san first—and he's seriously been absent these past few days; Takeshi hasn't caught him doing that thing where he sits around watching them go about their lives very much at all since Sunday. It would also require trying to find the words to ask with, and for Hibari-san to be willing to listen, and—no, he can't see that. Can't see it at all.

* * *

><p>It's Thursday before Hibari-san shows up again, and that's maybe being generous with how Takeshi defines <em>showing up<em>. They've taken their lunches outside, Tsuna and Gokudera and the girls, and they're sitting under the spreading branches of the trees out by the sports field when Takeshi's neck prickles with the sense that he's being watched. (It's funny how he can feel that, but Reborn and Tousan both say it's a good skill to have, one that will come in handy. The only difference is that Reborn smiles when he says things like that, but Tousan says it like it worries him.)

Gokudera notices too, maybe half a beat after Takeshi does. He doesn't stop talking; he and Hana-san have been wrangling all week over a point of politics or something. Takeshi hasn't been paying attention, but it keeps them entertained and gives Tsuna something else to focus his attention on. "It's like I keep moving my mouth but no sound is coming out," Gokudera says, even as he looks past Hana-san and Tsuna and catches Takeshi's eye. "Are you even hearing what I'm saying?"

"Of course I'm hearing it, it just doesn't make any sense," Hana-san insists, even though Gokudera isn't listening to her any more. He's looking around the same way Takeshi is, seeking out the source of that surveillance. Of course, Takeshi has a certain advantage; he's been waiting for this since Sunday and he's already pretty sure who it is that's watching them. He laughs at Hana-san and glances up through the sunlight-dappled leaves just fast enough to catch a glimpse of black cloth fluttering over the edge of the clubhouse roof. The sense of being watched disappears as abruptly as it had arrived, and it's likely that the girls hadn't even noticed it. Tsuna did, or at least noticed Takeshi and Gokudera noticing, which amounts to the same thing.

Takeshi shrugs at him and returns to his bento, since there's not really anything he can say about Hibari-san's thing for high places and spying on people. After a moment Tsuna goes back to mooning over Kyouko-san, though not without spending a little too long with his eyes resting on Takeshi.

He gets that feeling of being watched again later in the afternoon, during phys ed. It's baseball, has been baseball for the past few weeks, and Takeshi's going to miss that when they switch over to track and field next week. (He won't miss Gokudera's grumbling about it, though.) It's only phys ed, but Takeshi throws himself into the games anyway, the way he doesn't bother doing with the other sports rotations. He does it because it makes Gokudera roll his eyes and he's got a reputation to maintain anyway, but really, he does it because it's _baseball_. There's a clock in the back of Takeshi's head and it's counting down steadily, measuring off the time he has left for the game. He's made his peace with that, pretty much, but the cost of that peace is playing each game like it's his last. (He's had enough things happen in the mafia game now to know that each one might be.)

Takeshi's on the mound when he feels it, the hairs on the back of his neck lifting and prickling with the sense that he's being watched again. Takeshi grins. Asano, who's already two strikes down, goes green and completely whiffs the fastball Takeshi sends screaming across the plate. The game had already been going badly for the other team, but now Takeshi has a reason to show off and it just falls apart for them. Nojima's probably the best player in their class aside from Takeshi himself, but Takeshi strikes him out with a curveball, another fastball, a slow pitch that psychs him out completely, and then it's time to come in from the field. Takeshi's neck doesn't stop prickling even then.

"The hell," Fukami says as they're lining up and Gokudera is stepping up to bat, looking like he'd rather be holding a dead rat in his teeth. "Don't you want to save some of that for a real game?"

Takeshi just grins at him and stretches an arm over his head—not the roof of the clubhouse, he decides; the trees instead, that's where Hibari-san's lurking now. "No," he says. "This _is_ a real game."

Fukami just rolls his eyes, not convinced, but that doesn't matter. He doesn't have to understand. Tsuna looks puzzled, which is more of a concern, but since he doesn't try to say anything here and now, Takeshi doesn't worry about it.

Hibari-san watches until the end of class rolls around and the other team is thoroughly demoralized; it's the best round of phys ed baseball Takeshi's ever played.

Later—much later, after dinner and he's wrestled his homework into submission—Takeshi lies back on his bed and thinks about being on the mound while Hibari-san was watching and how that had felt, the prickling awareness of Hibari-san's laser focus on him as he'd played. Wasn't like that was something he'd been able to pay attention to at the time. Too distracting, for one, and besides, it was something worth savoring. Now there's plenty of time for that sort of thing.

Takeshi closes his eyes and thinks about standing on the mound and knowing Hibari-san's somewhere nearby, paying attention. He gets hard almost before he's got the feeling called to mind again—the humid air and the smooth action of the wind-up and pitch and the ball spinning as it flies from his fingertips, and the weight of Hibari-san's regard. It puts a hot feeling in the pit of his stomach to think of Hibari-san and the game at the same time; he undoes his fly as he sifts through the game again, his cock throbbing in time to his heartbeat. He recalls the best moments, the ones where his mind and body were in perfect accord, the perfect pitches and the ringing crack of his bat connecting with the ball and the ball soaring deep into left field where Asano might as well be chasing butterflies for all the good he's doing.

Does Hibari-san see the perfection in that kind of moment? Takeshi wonders about that as he slides his hand under the waistband of his boxers and cups his cock. Can he see why it's the same thing as a fight, the same thing as that moment when a blow meets flesh or is deflected? Or maybe not quite the same thing; that game wasn't all that great, not like a real game would be. A real game would be like fighting Hibari-san—today's game was more like playing with Lambo.

It would be good, though, to play a game with his team against a decent opponent and Hibari-san there to see it, if it weren't too much like herding behavior for him to attend. Takeshi thinks about that and slides his hand up, cupping his palm over the head of his cock. The friction and the fantasy he's building in his head, going all out with Hibari-san there to see him doing it, makes him draw a breath, a deeper one. The bruises on his ribs ache and that just makes the hot feeling in his stomach twist, because the ache just reminds him of how he got those bruises, how sparring with Hibari-san is like the best games, but better. Sparring with Hibari-san _does_ take everything Takeshi has, the best of him and then some, and offers the surety that Hibari-san is giving that back in his own way. Takeshi rubs his thumb over the head of his cock and bites his lip, which isn't the kind of sharpness he'd like it to be but is close enough, and thinks about Hibari-san's eyes, single-minded and hot enough to burn, the way Hibari-san fights like he's never even heard of holding back, and the way Takeshi can feel his delight, uncompromising as diamond, in every swing of those tonfa.

Hibari-san gets hard when he fights, too. Takeshi takes another breath that aches and closes his fist around his cock, thinking about the jut of Hibari-san's cock against the black of his slacks and the crisp white of his shirt, the slickness beading at the slit and the lazy glitter of Hibari-san's eyes as he strokes himself off. Thinking of that summons up the way Hibari-san's cock felt in Takeshi's hands, sleek and heavy, and the soft feel of his skin against Takeshi's lips, the salt taste on his skin and how his cock had crowded his mouth and flooded it with salt-flat and musk. He's rocking into his own fist now, remembering that moment, breathing hard enough that there's a constant dull pang in his side. Takeshi ignores that and tightens his fingers as he thinks about the intent way Hibari-san looked at him and the way he almost smiled after Takeshi had come in his hand and wonders whether that was how Hibari-san was looking this afternoon. That's it. It's the thought of the satisfied line of Hibari-san's mouth that sets Takeshi off and follows him down into the wash of pleasure as he comes, sticky-hot against his palm and stomach.

Takeshi catches his breath slowly after, sweat cooling on his skin in the sluggish aftermath as the bruises along his ribs stop throbbing—they're definitely getting better, gone mostly to green now—before he reaches for the tissues to clean up with.

It's two days until Sunday, he thinks, and lays in bed a while longer before going to take his bath.

* * *

><p>Takeshi doubts very much that it's an accident that Gokudera finds something else to do Friday afternoon, something that requires him to be elsewhere when it comes time to walk home after school. That could have something to do with the way Tsuna looks obscurely satisfied with himself as Takeshi falls in with him after school.<p>

Here we go, Takeshi thinks, resigned, but it's actually a quiet walk home. Tsuna doesn't press him for conversation and Takeshi's always found it easy to be quiet with Tsuna, who isn't the kind to need flashy performances. Or rather, isn't the kind to be distracted by them. It's the same thing, but not. Either way, Tsuna doesn't say much until they turn the corner of his street. "Looks like your bruises are healing up okay."

Takeshi looks down on reflex, checking himself over. The bar of green-yellow across his arm is probably the most visible mark left, aside from the split place in his lip, which is mostly just tender now. He shows Tsuna a grin and suspects it doesn't do much. "Yep. I heal pretty fast." Just one more of those useful little talents, one of the ones that are a part of being one of Reborn's natural-born hitmen or something.

Tsuna nods and they walk a few more paces down the sidewalk. Tsuna's fiddling with the strap of his bag; his forehead is creased and he looks even more worried than usual. Takeshi waits, because it's pretty clear that Tsuna is building himself up for something.

When Tsuna finally comes out with, "How'd you get them?" it's actually pretty easy to just shrug and say, "I was sparring with Hibari-san."

Tsuna doesn't say anything at all to that, not at first, though he wrinkles up his forehead, looking all perplexed. When he does things like that, Takeshi can see how he's going to look when he's older, all serious and solemn and careworn. (Takeshi just hopes that there'll be smile lines on Tsuna's face too, and resolves to work on that.) "I thought that maybe it was that." Tsuna darts a glance at him; the corners of his mouth are turned down and he doesn't look happy, exactly. "If you were getting into fights with anyone else, it'd be a matter for Family, and you'd say something."

"Yeah," Takeshi says, because saying _maybe_ would just worry Tsuna.

But Tsuna's not done yet. He nods and says, "So I thought, if it's not that, then who? Those aren't the kind of bruises that you get when you've been sparring with your dad, and Squalo hasn't been by in a while, so it pretty much had to be Hibari." They've come to Tsuna's house; they stop there, outside the front gate. Tsuna looks up at Takeshi. "I just don't know _why_."

Takeshi rubs his hand over his chin, thinking about the ways of answering that, but in the end he goes with the simple one. "I want to," he tells Tsuna. "It's fun."

Tsuna's mouth moves, silent, shaping the words _it's fun_ like he doesn't quite know how to make sense of them. He looks at Takeshi's arms again and the faint bruises still patterning them, then back up, disbelief sliding down over his face. "You're completely crazy," he all but accuses Takeshi, almost helpless.

Only Tsuna isn't helpless, not really, and Takeshi can already see something like his sense of humor beginning to surface from beneath his worry. Yeah, it looks like they're going to get through this okay after all. He shrugs and shows Tsuna another grin. "Don't knock it till you've tried it," he says, perfectly sure that Tsuna will do no such thing.

"I can't believe you sometimes," Tsuna informs him. It kind of looks like he's trying to frown but can't quite manage it. "What are you, some kind of masochist?"

"They're only bruises," Takeshi says. "It's worth it."

The look Tsuna gets then is suddenly thoughtful, like he's hearing something in that Takeshi would maybe rather he didn't. Takeshi rocks himself back and forth in his sneakers, uncomfortable with the way it feels that Tsuna is stripping him down to his bones, all with the purest of intentions. Then Tsuna says, slowly, like he's measuring out his words, "I hope that it is. And that you're being careful."

"I'm always careful," Takeshi tells him.

Tsuna doesn't even try to pretend that he believes that, which is just as well. "Be careful," he says again, firmly enough to give it the weight of a real command. Takeshi gets the feeling that Tsuna knows, somehow, that it's more than just the fighting that's going on.

He dips his head, acknowledging the order. "I know what I'm doing," he says, which is true. Mostly true. True as far as it goes.

Tsuna gazes up at him and then sighs. "Just remember that Gokudera will hurt himself laughing if you aren't careful," he says, and the dangerous moment is past.

"Can't have that." Takeshi grins at Tsuna. "Don't worry, it's fine." He shrugs. "See you later?"

Tsuna opens his mouth, but after a moment he simply says, "Yeah, I'll see you later." He turns away and walks into his house, and doesn't stop shaking his head the entire way.

* * *

><p>Tousan hasn't said a word about any of this, though Takeshi has caught him looking at some of the bruises, studying them or maybe just keeping track of them as they fade. And it's not like Takeshi is trying to hide anything from Tousan, but there are things he really doesn't think he wants to talk through with his father. And things Tousan probably doesn't want to know anyway. Tousan's not the kind to push, either.<p>

Even so, when Takeshi heads downstairs Sunday afternoon, Tousan lowers the newspaper he's reading and looks at him. Just looks at him, grave, as Takeshi freezes in the act of opening his mouth to say that he's going out. He shifts on the balls of his feet and clutches the strap slung over his shoulder and tries to meet Tousan's eyes like he isn't heading out to see what's going to happen next.

Not that Takeshi thinks for one second that Tousan's fooled.

"Your homework is all done?" Tousan asks after they've stared at each other for a bit.

"Yeah," Takeshi says, and it's true, too: Tousan's not above checking from time to time, and swears Takeshi will thank him for it later. (Takeshi has his doubts about that, but Tousan's been right about stranger things.) "Finished the last of it this morning."

Tousan nods, still studying Takeshi and looking thoughtful. Takeshi tries to remember whether there are any chores he's left undone, but can't think of anything he's overlooked—there shouldn't be any reason for Tousan to look like he's thinking of reasons to keep Takeshi inside. Then Tousan sighs and shakes his head (something about the way he does it reminds Takeshi of the way Tsuna shakes _his_ head sometimes). "You'd better be careful with those ribs," he says, completely randomly.

"Eh?" Takeshi says, since that's neutral enough not to give anything away. He hopes.

Tousan just snorts and gives him a rather pointed look. "Broken ribs aren't a joke, and you're still not breathing completely normally. You're going to want to be careful of them." The newspaper rattles as he shakes it out again, and it only _sounds_ like an afterthought when he adds, "Assuming it comes to that, of course."

Takeshi can't help himself; it feels like his face must be on fire. "_Tousan_," he protests.

Tousan looks over the top of the newspaper again and snorts at him. "So it _is_ like that, is it? I guess you must be getting to be that age."

"Tousan," Takeshi whines, because he really, really doesn't want to be having this conversation at all.

Tousan carries on because he's merciless that way. "If it's like that, I suppose there's not a whole lot that I can say," he muses. "Not and have you listen. I remember how it goes at that age." He sighs, practically misty, and Takeshi groans in horror, pretty sure that Tousan is about to start telling him about the days when he was courting Kaasan. Takeshi is not at all in the place for that to be good right now.

But Tousan just laughs at him and leaves that subject mercifully closed. "I'll see you for supper?" It only sounds like a question, so Takeshi ducks his head and mutters his assent—he'll be home by then if Tousan wants him to be. Tousan nods his approval. "All right, then. Get along with you, and mind what I said about those ribs."

Takeshi nods and makes for the door. While he's stepping into his sneakers, Tousan adds, like an afterthought but not, "Oh, and you might bring him by sometime."

Takeshi's neck protests the way he jerks around to look at Tousan, who's smiling placidly behind his newspaper. (He doesn't get it, Tousan doesn't really go out all that much, and when he does, Takeshi would _swear_ that his social circle doesn't overlap with his own. How does he find these things out?) "Uh," he says, groping for some way to cope with the mind-bending concept of bringing Hibari-san around to meet his father. Oh, _man_. "Um. Um."

"When it gets to be that way, of course," Tousan supplies gently. His eyes are twinkling, though. Well. At least he _knows_ how evil he's being. "It doesn't do to rush these things."

"Right." Takeshi doesn't have anything else he _ can_ say, not when Tousan is so clearly determined to be _Tousan_ about the whole thing. "I'll, uh… I'll be going now."

"Enjoy yourself," Tousan says, peaceably enough. Then he smiles. "But I suppose that goes without saying."

He's still laughing behind his newspaper when Takeshi gets his shoes on and escapes.

**end**

Comments are always delightful!


	4. Landslide

**Title:** Landslide  
><strong>Pairings:<strong> Yamamoto/Hibari  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Hibari begins to draw some conclusions about Yamamoto's peculiar behavior.  
><strong>Notes:<strong> Adult for smut; violence as foreplay. 2689 words.

* * *

><p><strong>Landslide<strong>

When Kyouya finishes his meticulous patrol of Namimori and comes to the sports field behind the school, Yamamoto is neither doing kata nor practicing baseball, as Kyouya has expected him to be (he has tried not to think about Yamamoto at all, unsuccessfully; he is not accustomed to losing any of his battles, let alone with himself). Yamamoto isn't doing anything at all: he is stretched out on the grass that has had the dust washed from it but is still the dun of late summer, and he is nearly fully clothed. A worn t-shirt stretches across his chest and shoulders, the same faded blue as the horizon, and he's wearing the jeans Kyouya has seen before, the ones that belong in a ragbag. They still fit him like a second skin, clinging to his thighs and showing fair skin where they've been worn to threads.

He is barefoot; his sneakers lie nearby, sitting together as properly as anyone could wish, white socks rolled up inside them. Exposed like this, Yamamoto's feet look strange, all the delicate bones of them and his ankles plain to see beneath the movement of his skin. He's tucked one hand beneath his head. The other rests on his stomach, idle, and he doesn't move at all, even though he must know that Kyouya is standing there and watching him.

(He has known when Kyouya's eyes have been on him all week long.)

The recent rain is already a memory; the grass crunches beneath Kyouya's feet as he steps closer, and closer still, until his shadow falls across Yamamoto's face. Yamamoto stirs then, tilting his head back. His face is upside down, neither smiling nor frowning, and Kyouya cannot tell what is moving behind his eyes.

This isn't right. Yamamoto isn't supposed to be just—lying there, taking his ease on the grass. This isn't the stillness of a predator on the hunt—this is indolence. Kyouya's fingers find the grips of his tonfa in unthinking response to Yamamoto's repose.

"What are you doing?" The words feel strange in his mouth, like round stones tumbling against each other, nonsensical noises. Kyouya hates that feeling, hates this feeling, this disappointment that Yamamoto is just lying there like—like he's in his own territory and Kyouya is the intruder.

"Thinking, I guess. Watching for clouds." The corners of Yamamoto's eyes crease then. "You're the first one I've seen, though." He rubs his fingers over his stomach. The lazy movement of them catches Kyouya's eyes, back and forth, echoing the way Yamamoto touched himself a week ago in the shower. The memory comes back to Kyouya all unbidden, as it has all week long: the smooth line of Yamamoto's back and the contrast of Yamamoto's tanned fingers against the flushed skin of his cock and the sounds Yamamoto made, all of it haunting Kyouya.

He hisses his frustration between his teeth. "You're breaking the rules."

Yamamoto continues to look at him, upside down, sprawled across the grass, and placid as a sheep. There's a faint sheen of sweat across his forehead; he's been basking long enough to become hot in the sun. He doesn't answer Kyouya's complain at all. "Did you enjoy the game?"

Kyouya twists his fingers on his tonfa, thinking about how Yamamoto would look with blood streaming from his mouth, his nose, what sheeplike sounds he would make if Kyouya took another step and slammed his feet into his ribs (were they still bruised? The way Yamamoto has moved through the week has made it seem as though there weren't a mark on him, though Kyouya knows there must have been). Yamamoto's sword rests on the grass, sheathed; even he is not so good that he can reach it in time to defend himself.

"I did," Yamamoto adds before Kyouya can act. "Best game I've played in phys ed pretty much ever. Almost like a real game." He lapses into silence again, and though he hasn't turned his eyes from Kyouya, he looks as though he is seeing something else. The game he played a few days ago with his classmates, the game that Kyouya watched without knowing why he watched, except that he couldn't understand how doing so could feel like he was watching Yamamoto during a fight.

Kyouya lifts his tonfa, the weight of them reassuring in his hands, already seeing the fight to come and the way it will quiet his thoughts, make them his own again.

Yamamoto says, "The best games are like fights, you know. You, and your opponent, and the edge, and you can't just surpass him, you have to surpass yourself, too." He falls silent again, so that there is nothing in Kyouya's ears but the drone of the insects in the trees and the things Yamamoto is saying, baffling things (as Yamamoto is baffling) that should not make sense (as Yamamoto does not make sense).

Now Yamamoto no longer looks as though he is seeing something far away. His eyes stay on Kyouya, watching him closely. Then he nods, maybe to himself. "Yeah. You get that. Thought you would." He comes alive between one breath and the next, the ease melting from him as he stretches out his hand, taking up his sword as he rolls to his feet. The sound as he thumbs the saya is soft, but it runs through Kyouya like the wind as Yamamoto tips his head to the side. "You wanna?"

Kyouya sees no point in answering such a ridiculous question. Instead he attacks and lets the swing of his tonfa speak for him. Yamamoto laughs, the sound of it low and clear over the hiss of his blade and the ring of tonfa against steel and the rustle of their feet in the grass as they break and circle each other. There is nothing in him now to show that just moments ago he was lounging on the grass; he moves with the same easy confidence as he had when Kyouya watched him playing with his classmates, herbivores all too stupid to see what was stalking among them.

(How is it that they cannot see what is plain before their eyes? This must be what makes them herbivores.)

Yamamoto drops low and brings his blade around in a flowing sweep; Kyouya launches himself over it, seeking Yamamoto's arm with his tonfa, but Yamamoto isn't there anymore. He's rising like the cresting of a wave. If they were fighting in water, that sweep of his sword would raise a curtain of water to follow it. This is not the terrain that favors Yamamoto's style, not completely.

Kyouya catches the blade on a tonfa, turning it aside, and thinks that he would like to fight Yamamoto on his own ground. Something about the way Yamamoto throws himself into these fights, eyes gleaming as sharply as the edge of his blade, says that he wishes for the same thing.

Yamamoto keeps smiling, even though Kyouya lands the first hit of this fight, a blow that bounces off Yamamoto's shoulder. Kyouya has no reason to suppose that he is taking this lightly—how could he be, when his focus burns in his eyes and he dances through the liquid shapes of his forms, when Kyouya's arms vibrate with the weight of his strikes? When his blade slips through Kyouya's guard, it raises a welt along Kyouya's side, one that experience says will take days to fade. But Yamamoto smiles. Kyouya tastes something in his sword and the air that he sucks into his mouth, something besides the tang of sweat and blood when Yamamoto uses the sweep of his blade to cover a sucker punch (because Yamamoto is a carnivore, knows this for what it is, and knows that there is no such thing as fairness when two carnivores meet).

It tastes like pleasure. Pleasure and something else, something like hunger. Kyouya can't name it, not until the moment he and Yamamoto close with each other, tonfa locked against blade. Kyouya can feel the heat of Yamamoto's body while their harsh breaths mingle in the space between them, and gets hard fast enough to be dizzy with the rush of it. It's desire, or has been all along, and it's in Yamamoto's sword and the way Yamamoto looks at him from across the barrier of tonfa and blade, his eyes dark and color burning high across his cheekbones.

They're in the middle of something already, a fight, a good fight (because Yamamoto is one of the very few people in Namimori it is worth fighting), but Kyouya is hard with the taste of blood on his lips and Yamamoto watching him and the memory of Yamamoto's skin all bare and smooth under his hands and Yamamoto's tongue against his cock. Yamamoto passes his tongue over his lips now, just the tip of it, leaving them shining damply, and Kyouya swallows hard.

"You wanna?" Yamamoto asks. His voice has dropped, turned rough, no laughter in it now.

Kyouya drops one of his tonfa so he can fist his hand in the thin cotton of Yamamoto's shirt (thin, worn to softness, damp with Yamamoto's sweat) and drags Yamamoto closer. He makes a sound, low and surprised, but bends his head eagerly as Kyouya crushes their mouths together. He opens his mouth to Kyouya's, slick-hot, and it tastes of blood and sweat as they kiss. His eyes flutter as Kyouya slides his tongue between Yamamoto's lips; his lashes drop down over his eyes and he lowers his sword, moves it from between them and hooks his off hand around Kyouya's hip. The weight of it pulls Kyouya half a step nearer, brings him chest to chest with Yamamoto, and Yamamoto makes the sound that Kyouya wants to as their hips fit together. He's hard too; Kyouya can feel the shape of his cock through the layers of cloth between them. It makes him impatient. He presses against Yamamoto, who gasps as they rub against each other, and drops the other tonfa so he can take hold of Yamamoto's hips when Yamamoto shudders.

Yamamoto's eyes are closed, his lashes lying dark against the color flushing his cheeks, and his skin gleams with sweat. He clutches at Kyouya's back, grabbing handfuls of Kyouya's shirt and grinding back as Kyouya fits their hips together, seeking more of the friction that sends pleasure screaming along every nerve he possesses. Kyouya pants for breath, sucking in sticky gasps of air that smells of dry grass and Yamamoto and sunlight, watching him and driving their hips together until Yamamoto stiffens and groans, the sound of it hoarse, shaking as the look of tense concentration he wears goes slack and open.

Kyouya can't help the satisfied sound he makes. Yamamoto opens his eyes then, dazed beneath the heaviness of his lashes, and looks at Kyouya in a way that Kyouya can't name at all. It runs through him, sharp as a knife, and just like that he's coming, his hips jerking against Yamamoto's as his cock throbs in his slacks and pleasure stabs up his spine.

Yamamoto's hands are spread against his back when his head clears, fingers fanned wide as Yamamoto watches him. They're hot through Kyouya's shirt, which sticks to his skin, soaked through with his sweat. Kyouya can't decide whether the feel of them is pleasant or not. Yamamoto is still breathing hard, sucking in air through his open mouth, and his lips are smudged with blood.

He doesn't say anything. He's been loquacious from the moment Kyouya's shadow fell across his face, but now he says nothing, and Kyouya knows enough of himself to know that he's not one who can read people easily.

(Yamamoto isn't people; he's another carnivore. A predator.)

He passes his tongue over his lips, pink against red, licking away Kyouya's blood. His hands rest lightly against Kyouya's back. Breaking away from them would be nothing, hardly worth naming as effort. Kyouya supposes that's why he doesn't bother. Yamamoto's mouth shines wetly; Kyouya frowns at that, because it looks naked now.

So he twists his fist in Yamamoto's shirt, the cotton turned a shade darker with sweat, and pulls Yamamoto close again. Yamamoto opens his eyes wider at first, but they soften while Kyouya presses their mouths together, feels the sting of his lip and tastes the metal of blood when he pushes his tongue between Yamamoto's lips. Yamamoto makes a sound, muffled, and does something, changes the pressure of his mouth so that he's sucking on Kyouya's tongue, slow and obscene, while he works his fingers against Kyouya's back delicately, like a cat kneading its paws. But he's not holding Kyouya, no more than he did a week ago, which is strange. (Kyouya thinks, though it's difficult to be sure, for all his observations of the mating behaviors of Namimori's sheep. He cannot say with any certainty what motivates the herbivores, and besides, Yamamoto isn't one of them.)

His lips feel tender, bruised in the places that don't sting, but even so, he keeps kissing Yamamoto, working his mouth against Yamamoto's while Yamamoto watches him from beneath his eyelashes. He makes quiet sounds against Kyouya's mouth, meaningless sounds as he twists their tongues together, sounds like pleasure and wanting that match the way something hums through Kyouya, lazy as the drone of the insects in the trees. Kyouya's chest aches like he can't get enough air, though he's sucking in the humid air by the lungsful, air that is full of the smell of sex rising up between them.

Yamamoto's getting hard again, just like he is, but he moves as little as Kyouya does, bare shifts of his weight that nudge his hardness against Kyouya's, feeding the slow burn firing along Kyouya's nerves. Kyouya's cock throbs, heavy and sticky inside his underwear. It's almost too soon, too fast to be thinking of this again while he's still sensitive, and still he doesn't pull away.

Yamamoto exhales. His breath is damp against Kyouya's lips as he says Kyouya's name, the sound quiet as the breeze passing through grass, and moves one of his hands, passing it up Kyouya's back, following his spine up and hovering just above his shoulder blades before he slides it back down again. It's a light touch, almost tentative, and Yamamoto watches him as he repeats it.

"What," Kyouya begins, but he stops there. He doesn't quite know what he wants to say. Or ask. The way Yamamoto is touching him puts him off balance, a little, more than he likes, and he spares a thought for the tonfa lying at their feet.

Yamamoto stills his hand, leaves it poised between Kyouya's scapula, and for a moment his teeth show white as he presses them against the smeared, swollen red of his lower lip. "Hibari-san," he says, and "I want," and "please." He stops, driving all the color out of his lip as he sinks his teeth into it again, until the only color in it comes from the crimson of Kyouya's own blood. The color floods back when he releases it and shapes the words, "You _are_ the edge."

It doesn't make sense, but it does, as much as anything filtered through words ever can. Kyouya takes a breath, lets it out, and turns that over while Yamamoto's hands hover against his back and Yamamoto watches and waits.

It is not unacceptable, he decides. Not unacceptable at all.

He steps back, away from Yamamoto's hands and arms and chest. Yamamoto makes no move to stop him (Yamamoto has never tried to restrain him), lets his hands drop to his sides as he watches, face going still in the way it does whenever he wishes to conceal what he is thinking. His shirt is wrinkled, blotched with his sweat, and the front of his jeans are strained tight and wet across the shape of his cock.

Kyouya stoops for his tonfa and looks him over again. "Yes," he decides, and turns, starting for the clubhouse.

He hears the sound of bare feet padding through the grass after him.

Kyouya smiles.

**end**

Comments are, as always, lovely!


	5. Cyclone

**Title:** Cyclone**  
>Pairings:<strong> Yamamoto Takeshi/Hibari Kyouya**  
>Summary:<strong> Hibari finally figures out what's going on and what he thinks about it.**  
>Notes:<strong> Adult for smut. 4040 words.

* * *

><p><strong>Cyclone<strong>

The inside of the club room is dark and stuffy, just as it was a week ago. This time the only light that falls across the floor is the bar of sunlight, just the width of the door, that streams across the floor. It picks out the shape of the benches and the dust motes that spin through the air. Kyouya's shadow stretches away from him, attenuated and warped by the places it falls across the benches.

A second shadow joins his: Yamamoto's. Kyouya turns from his survey of the club room and looks. Yamamoto stands in the doorway; his sneakers dangle from one hand and his sword is in the other, and he lingers on the threshold, haloed by the light. Kyouya can't see much of his face, backlit as he is, but the way he holds his shoulders is careful.

Yamamoto Takeshi does not make assumptions, and Kyouya thinks he approves of this circumspection.

"There's a light switch." Yamamoto's voice is quiet. "If you want."

Kyouya shakes his head almost before he consciously decides to. His eyes are already beginning to adjust to the darkness in this stuffy room, will adjust even more once he's not staring into the sunlight. "No."

"All right." Yamamoto shifts on his feet, rocks back onto his heels and then up on the balls of them before he steps inside. His bare feet make no sound against the floor. He pulls the door to after him, until there is only a narrow line of sunlight to slice across the floor, barely wider than a blade. He's nothing but a darker shape against the stuffy dimness of the room at first, but then the details begin to emerge again—the lighter colors of his shirt and jeans, grey in the low light, the way he stoops to set his shoes and sword on the bench just inside the door, and how he rolls his neck on his shoulders as he stands straight again.

It's hot inside the building. Fresh sweat trickles down Kyouya's spine, but he steps closer to Yamamoto anyway and lays a hand against his shoulder. The t-shirt is damp under his fingertips and fits against Yamamoto's body like another skin. That thought recalls the way Yamamoto's bare shoulders looked with water sheeting over them, the muscles shifting with every flex of his wrist, and how they looked under his phys ed uniform as Yamamoto stood on the pitcher's mound. The memories twist hunger through Kyouya, a strange hunger that has everything and nothing to do with the tightness of his cock. He finds himself flattening his hand against Yamamoto's shoulder, feeling the smooth shape of his muscles, deltoid and trapezius beneath damp cotton. He knows now how Yamamoto's skin looks when it is bare, all sleek and fair where the sun doesn't touch it, and hunger twists through him again, reckless and dizzying.

Yamamoto's breathing turns deeper as Kyouya strokes his palm along his shoulder, and faster as Kyouya drops his hand to find the hem of his t-shirt and push it up. "Off," he says.

"Yeah, okay." Yamamoto's voice has gone husky. He reaches back and twists a hand in the collar of his shirt, tugging it over his head. He lets it drop on the bench and looks at Kyouya, who can see well enough now to see how he passes his tongue over his lips and how his hair stands up in damp spikes. Yamamoto sucks in a breath and his skin shivers when Kyouya lays his hands on his shoulders again, but he stays still as Kyouya explores the shape of them, matching touch to memory.

Touching isn't enough. It's satisfying to feel the shape of Yamamoto under his hands, more satisfying than Kyouya knows how to explain to himself, but it's not enough. He steps closer, close enough to feel the heat that rises off Yamamoto's body, and tastes his skin—salt on his tongue and the smell of sweat and faint lingering traces of soap as he runs his mouth along the line of Yamamoto's shoulder.

Yamamoto groans; the sound of it rumbles in Kyouya's ear as his breathing turns faster still. His hands open and close at his sides, but he holds himself steady while Kyouya smooths his lips along his shoulder, taking in the taste and smell of Yamamoto and the way his voice sounds as he groans. It's better, but still not enough—Kyouya wants more, wants to hold all that Yamamoto is, somehow. He tries his teeth against the smoothness of Yamamoto's trapezius. Yamamoto jerks against him as he bites down; his groan is loud. Shocking. Kyouya does it again, slides his mouth down and closes his teeth on Yamamoto's shoulder.

Yamamoto shudders and reaches a hand backwards, flailing it through the air and finding Kyouya's shoulder with unerring aim despite not being able to see what he is doing. He holds Kyouya—just holds him, doesn't try to push him away as he pants—and his skin turns slick under Kyouya's mouth and fingers, sharp with the taste of fresh sweat. "Hibari-san," he says, voice gone hoarse. Kyouya likes the way his name sounds, spoken like that. "Please."

It's not clear what Yamamoto is asking for. Kyouya bites down on the point of Yamamoto's shoulder, right over the bone, and feels the way Yamamoto's body shivers against his own. Yamamoto flexes his fingers against Kyouya's shoulder, gasping for breath, and Kyouya wonders if maybe he doesn't know what he's asking for, either.

Kyouya slides his hands down, fanning his fingers out and following Yamamoto's ribcage, counting off his ribs. At one point, Yamamoto sucks in a breath, the sound of it faint—pained. Kyouya pauses there, resting his fingers against Yamamoto's skin, and presses again, curious. Yamamoto grunts. "Still sore," he says. Kyouya thinks about his tonfa slamming against Yamamoto's side a week ago and watching Yamamoto touch his ribs afterwards. This is the first Yamamoto has said or shown of that moment since.

He keeps going, following the line of Yamamoto's side as his ribs taper into his waist and then his hips Yamamoto's skin is soft there, just above the waistband of his jeans, smooth and slick with his sweat. He shivers beneath Kyouya's hands with each quick breath he takes and with every movement of Kyouya's mouth against his shoulder. Kyouya traces his fingers along Yamamoto's waistband, feeling the way his stomach expands and contracts with each breath. Yamamoto makes a sound, something like a strangled groan, when Kyouya flattens his palm against his stomach, just over the button of his fly where there is a fine scattering of hair, and grips Kyouya's shoulder more tightly. "Hibari-san." His voice is hoarse, full of—hunger, the same kind of hunger Kyouya feels twisting through himself. That edge of wanting, eager and faintly uncertain, decides Kyouya, or maybe the way Yamamoto continues to hold himself steady, still not presuming, does.

From this position, it's almost like undoing the button and zip of his own fly, almost like reaching inside to handle himself. Yamamoto groans when he does, low and wordless, and a shiver wracks him as Kyouya closes his hand around his cock, easing it out and stroking his fingers over the sticky-wet mess of it. Yamamoto leans back against him as he does, leans his head back and rests it against Kyouya's shoulder, and sighs out a breath as he rocks into the loose curl of Kyouya's fingers. He sighs Kyouya's name, shapes the syllables on a husky breath as Kyouya slides his fingers up and down, like fisting himself but not, and they hang in the air like a prayer.

It feels strange to take Yamamoto's weight like this, to have him leaning so trustingly against his chest and to have the bare line of his throat exposed and pale in the glow of sunlight coming in through the cracked door. It seems almost improper, somehow, or indecent to be able to turn his face and close his mouth over the place where Yamamoto's shoulder and throat meet, but Kyouya does it anyway. Yamamoto's skin tastes of salt. The air smells like him, sweat and musk as he groans and rolls his hips against Kyouya's hands. The beat of them is almost lazy, a slow slide of his cock through Kyouya's fingers that belies the quickness of his breathing and the sounds he makes, low in his throat.

Kyouya slides the pads of his fingers over Yamamoto's head, and Yamamoto groans. He changes his grip, slows his hand down and tightens his fingers, and Yamamoto shudders. He closes his teeth on the juncture of Yamamoto's shoulder and throat as he works his fingers against Yamamoto's cock, and Yamamoto comes. He arches in Kyouya's arms, groaning Kyouya's name as he spills himself over Kyouya's fingers, and is still panting when he relaxes against Kyouya after, all his body gone loose and lax.

Some part of Kyouya, the part that is angered when he sees people standing about, crowded together like sheep, protests the way Yamamoto lolls against him, letting Kyouya brace him as his breathing slows and steadies. Part of Kyouya is baffled by how easily Yamamoto does it. And part of him is simply satisfied by this, his handiwork, even as he considers the mess on his fingers and reaches for the tissues in his pocket to wipe them clean.

Yamamoto stirs as he does, clearing his throat. It sounds loud in the quiet of the club room. "Hibari-san." He shifts the hand on Kyouya's shoulder, sliding it up and touching Kyouya's hair, slipping his fingers into the strands that cling to Kyouya's skin. Kyouya stills at the gesture, which feels strange to him, curiously intimate. "What," he begins, and stops when he realizes that he doesn't know how to frame the rest of the question.

Yamamoto rubs his fingers against Kyouya's nape, the movement deliberate. "Can it be my turn now?" he asks. Whimsical as the question may be, his tone is quiet. Serious. Kyouya cannot see his face, precisely, but he doesn't need to in order to know that Yamamoto isn't smiling.

It gives him pause. He doesn't say anything (doesn't know what it is he wants to say). Yamamoto doesn't say anything else. He stays where he is, leaning against Kyouya and stirring his fingers through the damp hair lying against Kyouya's neck, and waits once again for Kyouya to decide.

How, Kyouya wonders, how did Yamamoto Takeshi learn to be so subtle? And he closes his eyes for a moment before he says, "Yes."

Yamamoto sighs, all the breath running out of him in a rush. "Thanks," he says, soft, and doesn't move, not yet. He runs his thumb along Kyouya's nape. The nail drags along Kyouya's skin, a delicate scrape that makes Kyouya's breath come short in his throat all unexpectedly.

Then Yamamoto draws his hand away and turns, right in the circle of Kyouya's arms. He fits himself close again, insinuating as a cat. His expression is still and watchful; he studies Kyouya with the same attention Kyouya has seen him give an opponent on the battlefield or from the pitcher's mound before he lifts his hands. He settles one on Kyouya's shoulder, resting his thumb against the side of Kyouya's throat and rubbing against it slowly, and curves the other around Kyouya's jaw. The touch is a light one, careful, and Yamamoto waits and watches as if he wants to see whether Kyouya will object to this liberty with his person.

It should be too much—too much closeness, too much heat in this stuffy room—but Kyouya finds, to his own surprise (and perhaps to Yamamoto's, as well), that he can bear it after all. He watches Yamamoto watching him and then nods. Yamamoto smiles then, but it's not one of his broad grins. This smile is small, just the faintest curve of his lips, as intimate as the fingers he's cupped along Kyouya's jaw.

Kyouya raises his eyebrows when the pressure of Yamamoto's fingers against his jaw changes, but he lifts his chin anyway and lets Yamamoto kiss him. He settles his hands against Yamamoto's back, sweat-slick beneath his hands, and Yamamoto presses their mouths together. He's slow about it, moves his lips against Kyouya's almost lazily, little nudging strokes that feel like the turn of a spool winding some thread tight. He slides his tongue along Kyouya's lips and sucks on the bottom one, the pressure of his mouth strangely gentle, and rubs his thumb back and forth along the curve of Kyouya's collarbone. He's close enough that Kyouya can see his eyes, even in the gloom of this room, and can see that Yamamoto is watching him as each shallow kiss draws Kyouya more taut.

It's too much, too close, should be unbearable, but Kyouya does not pull away from the fingers that cup his jaw or the softness of Yamamoto's mouth, though he doesn't know if he can explain why he doesn't. Maybe it's the way hunger twists through him, throbbing heavy and tight in his gut, or maybe it's because Yamamoto has asked, each time.

He asks again, this time by shifting the hand resting against Kyouya's shoulder and settling it against his chest, just above the top button of his shirt. He leaves his fingers there, the weight of them so light as to be nearly imperceptible, and waits, watching Kyouya as he draws away from his mouth just a bit. He's still close enough that Kyouya can feel the little stir of Yamamoto's breath against his lips, especially when he nods and Yamamoto exhales softly, like he's surprised and pleased.

Kyouya thinks that Yamamoto's fingers are not quite steady as he begins to unbutton Kyouya's shirt. (He's not sure his own hands are steady, either, but they are pressed flat against the small of Yamamoto's back, just above the loose drape of his jeans, so it doesn't matter.) Yamamoto is slow, methodical. Deliberate. He watches Kyouya as he moves his hand down Kyouya's chest, until Kyouya's shirt hangs open. The air in the club room is too hot for this to afford much relief, and even if it were cooler, Yamamoto is standing too close—Kyouya can feel the heat of him still, rolling off Yamamoto and pooling between them.

Yamamoto says his name. His voice is hushed. Kyouya can feel Yamamoto's palm hovering a scant distance over his skin. He doesn't move, doesn't pull away from Yamamoto (even though there is a part of him standing apart, baffled by his own willingness to permit this, as it has been ever since the afternoon he first approached Yamamoto Takeshi).

He shivers in spite of himself when Yamamoto finally closes that last little distance and lays his hand against his skin, just above his hip. He digs his fingers into Yamamoto's back in response, as if that can ground him against the way it feels to have Yamamoto's hand against his bare skin, hot like a brand. Yamamoto draws a breath as Kyouya flexes his fingers, but he holds still. Waits. (Yamamoto, Kyouya thinks, is remarkably good at that.)

"Can I?" he asks when that first immediate rush of sensation eases. The words stir the air against Kyouya's lips. He can't help wondering what Yamamoto will say if he says no. (And part of him doesn't wonder at all; part of him is already certain that Yamamoto will accept that, would accept it even if Kyouya were to step away and leave again, and will still come back, because Yamamoto seeks the edge, studies it, pursues it.) But he doesn't.

Yamamoto lowers his hand from Kyouya's jaw and slips it under the edge of his shirt. His palms are warm against Kyouya's skin, damp, though that could be the sweat that slicks his skin. (Kyouya doesn't think it is, not entirely.) He rests his hands at Kyouya's waist and slides them up Kyouya's body, over his ribs. Kyouya can feel the tracks Yamamoto's hands leave on his skin, tingling like a strike, thinks that later he will be able to look at his reflection and see them on his skin like the bruises Yamamoto has left on his body each time they have fought. (Will they fade in time as the bruises do, or stay there, engraved on him like ink? Which would be better?) Yamamoto goes slowly, careful with his hands as he moves them over Kyouya's ribs and chest, but even so the touch of them is almost more than he can stand. How, he thinks, how could Yamamoto have permitted himself to be touched like this, so open and so easily, when the slow drag of Yamamoto's fingers down Kyouya's chest makes the breath stutter in his throat? (But he knows the answer to that; Yamamoto has already given it to him.)

Yamamoto touches him the way he was touched himself, just a few minutes ago, like he wants to learn every part of Kyouya's skin. He watches Kyouya as he skates his hands over Kyouya's chest. He must be able to feel the way each slow pass ratchets Kyouya tighter, until he has to open his mouth to draw breath, until each gulping breath of stifling air he takes in still isn't enough to keep his head from swimming with the way his cock throbs and sensation washes up and down his spine. Yamamoto passes his tongue over his lips then. "Can I?" he asks as he settles his hands against Kyouya's hips again. "Please?"

It should be strange that he sounds so hungry, wanting this, or Kyouya suspects that it should be, but it isn't. It just seems right, and so Kyouya says _yes_.

It takes him a moment to understand why the pressure of Yamamoto's hands changes, pushing against him until he takes a half-step back, before he recalls the benches that run the length of the room. He takes a breath and another step backward, though part of him rails against letting Yamamoto take this liberty. But Yamamoto keeps pace with him, rubbing his thumbs against Kyouya's waist just above his hips, and looks at him in a way that outweighs the indignity of permitting himself to be steered like this.

When Kyouya's knees bump against the bench, Yamamoto doesn't try to press him down against the broad, slatted surface. (It goes to show; Yamamoto is much more intelligent than he pretends to be.) He pauses there for a moment, gazing at Kyouya, and leans forward to brush their mouths together again. He keeps going, bending and tilting his head to nuzzle against Kyouya's jaw. Kyouya hears the sound that comes out of his own throat when Yamamoto slides his mouth along the underside of it; it sounds as though it comes from a long way away, muffled by the sound of his own harsh breathing. Yamamoto's mouth feels scorching hot against his throat, soft where his lips part for the wet slide of his tongue, and Kyouya hears his pulse roar in his ears in response.

Yamamoto licks the hollow of Kyouya's throat, keeps going, follows the line of Kyouya's sternum down, and Kyouya sits, folding himself down to the support of the bench without entirely deciding to do so. Yamamoto just moves with him, crouching at his knees and leaning over his lap without a trace of self-consciousness, and kisses Kyouya's stomach. His breath tickles across Kyouya's skin and the soft brush of his tongue makes Kyouya's breath hitch in his throat, or maybe it's the way Yamamoto lays his hands on Kyouya's knees, the weight coaxing them apart so Yamamoto can shift himself closer.

Kyouya lets him do it, breathes faster as he leans back on his hands and curls them around the bench slats, varnished sticky-slick beneath his palms. Anticipation strings him taut; the last time, he hadn't understood Yamamoto's intentions. This time he does. "Do it," he says when Yamamoto settles his hands on Kyouya's thighs, hot through the fabric of his slacks, and pauses that way. His voice sounds harsh against the hush, but Yamamoto just looks up, smiling soft and private, and nods as he undoes Kyouya's slacks.

It feels just as good as Kyouya remembers it being when Yamamoto closes his fingers around his cock and strokes it, one long slide up and down again that drags raw sensation through him. He groans and sinks his teeth into his lip, biting down hard enough that the split place begins to sting again, until the sharpness of that feeling pushes back the first overwhelming need to come again. Yamamoto's gaze flickers between his face and his cock as he strokes Kyouya again, absolutely intent, before he bends over Kyouya's lap and brushes his mouth against his cock.

Kyouya says something, or tries to, but the sense of it garbles in his throat as Yamamoto smooths his lips against him, soft as a kiss, and slides his tongue over him to lap at his head. The sensation of it is maddeningly delicate. Kyouya lifts his hips, seeking something more than that, and slides his cock between Yamamoto's lips. He groans with the softness of Yamamoto's mouth, and Yamamoto groans too, or Kyouya thinks he does. The sound is distant, obscured by the pulse pounding in Kyouya's ears and the need twisting knots in his gut. Yamamoto lets him roll his hips up and slide his cock through the circle of Yamamoto's fist and between his lips to fuck his mouth, quick, short jerks back and forth. Kyouya pants with the pleasure of it until even the sharpness of his teeth against his lips and the metal taste of his own blood can't keep him from coming apart. It snaps him tight as a bowstring, racing through him like a strike of lightning and scouring him raw in its wake, snatches his breath and scatters his thoughts, and leaves him gasping and shaken after.

Yamamoto stays where he is as Kyouya sags, supporting himself on arms that tremble as he slumps in on himself. He lets Kyouya slip free of his mouth as Kyouya stares down at him, dazed; as Kyouya blinks and tries to bring himself to order again, he settles back on his heels. He rests a hand on Kyouya's knee, but the pressure is light. Poised. As Kyouya begins to be able to think again, all his thoughts moving languidly, he realizes that Yamamoto is waiting again.

It takes him longer to decide what it is Yamamoto is waiting for this time, but it comes to him as he surveys the alert way Yamamoto balances on his toes, the little space he has given Kyouya, and the way he takes care not to rest his hand too heavily on Kyouya's knee—Yamamoto is ready to move out of his way if Kyouya decides to get up. If he decides to leave.

Oh, Kyouya thinks, looking down at Yamamoto's watchful expression. Oh.

He senses the way Yamamoto tenses when he uncurls a hand from the edge of the bench—tenses like he's ready to roll backwards at a split second's notice—but sees him still again when he settles his fingers on top of the hand that rests on his knee. Yamamoto's lips move as he begins to shape a question, one that stays unvoiced and silent as Kyouya closes his fingers around Yamamoto's. He keeps them there, wound loosely with Yamamoto's.

Bit by bit, Yamamoto leans forward again, the tension slipping out of his posture until he has come to rest against Kyouya's knee. The look in his eyes is tentative, even so, until Kyouya dips his chin, nodding. Then he just sighs and settles closer, another of those small, private smiles touching his mouth as he turns his hand up and brushes his fingertips against the inside of Kyouya's wrist.

It's too hot for this, too hot to let Yamamoto lean against him in this sweltering room that smells of stale sweat and sex, but Kyouya doesn't feel the need to move from this spot. Neither, apparently, does Yamamoto, and they stay there for a long time.

**end**

And that is just about that. *dusts hands and grins* Comments are lovely!


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